


soft on you

by Edgebug



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, hurt!Oswald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3551705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edgebug/pseuds/Edgebug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's someone in Jim's house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	soft on you

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank driftsbodaciousthighs.tumblr.com for getting me into this fandom. Bird Hair/Soft Policeman forever

  
"Jesus Christ!"

Okay, to be fair, Jim knew there was someone in his house before he actually saw the intruder; he could hear sounds and he knew it wasn't someone who had keys to his house because there wasn't a car he recognized in the driveway. There wasn't any car in the driveway, for that matter, which probably ruled out burglary--a burglar has to have a place to put the shit he burgles. And it probably wasn't someone intending to murder him--too much noise for that. Someone hiding in his home waiting to attack him would be dead silent.

 

So it's a mystery. God, he hates mysteries--at least when the mystery is about an unknown person in his house in the middle of the night. So, just to be on the safe side, he draws his weapon and follows the sounds.

He finds Oswald Cobblepot perched delicately on his master bathroom counter. He's also absolutely covered in blood. Hence the cry of "Jesus _Christ_!"

Oswald's eyes snap up to meet Jim's. "For god's sake, put down your sidearm, old friend, you're making me uncomfortable," he complains. His jacket and waistcoat are gone, folded neatly and set over the counter; his blood-soaked shirt is hiked up and he's pressing gauze against a spot low on his stomach and, to top it off, his hair is a fucking disaster. (To be fair, his hair is usually a fucking disaster but it's usually a more deliberate, artfully arranged disaster than this.) He looks like he got into a fight with a lawnmower and lost.

Jim does holster his gun, stepping closer to Oswald and trying to assess the damage. "What the hell happened to you?" He keeps himself calm; Oswald can't be _that_ hurt or he wouldn't be here, he'd be at a hospital, right? Wouldn't he?

Oswald grins and Jim notices the blood in his teeth. Concern lances through him. "I believe the proper thing to say is 'you should see the other guy.' I'd also like to congratulate you on your organizational skills, your first-aid supplies were very easy to f--"

" _Bullshit_ ," Jim snaps, "if you kicked ass and took names you'd be safe, you wouldn't be here hiding out like a dog licking its wounds." The smile falters and Oswald says nothing, his jaw clenching but his eyes turning downward. "Let me see that," Jim says gruffly, stepping in closer and lifting the gauze over Oswald's stomach. "Jesus Christ," he repeats, "you've got to go to the hospital."

Oswald gives a tiny bark of laughter. "It's a light stabbing, Jim, I've had worse. It was a three-inch jack knife," he says with a theatrical roll of his eyes. "Not all this blood is mine, you know. Please, give me some credit."

"How _much_ blood is yours?"

"About half." A wince as Oswald shifts. "A bit more than half. _Please_ stop worrying, I lost less than a pint of blood at the scene and the bleeding's slowing down--if anything important had been hit I'd know about it by now or I'd be dead."

"Had any painkillers?" Jim asks, fishing around in the first-aid basket for the lidocaine spray he knows is in there.

"You're prescribing Advil for a stab wound? Wow, you should have gone into medicine," Oswald says dryly, blinking as Jim shoves a bottle into his free hand. "What's this?"

"Lidocaine and antiseptic. It'll sting like a bitch at first but it'll numb you up."

Oswald dips his head in thanks and applies the spray, hissing in pain and gritting his teeth. Jim realizes that his dog-licking-wounds simile wasn't far off; like an animal, Oswald is incredibly good at masking pain. It's a defense mechanism; he does it automatically. Anyone else would be in tears by this point. Jim's seen it before and he'll see it again.

"And yeah, jackass, a couple of ibuprofen will keep inflammation down and help at least a little with the pain," Jim adds. He paws through the medical supplies, locating medical tape and antibiotic cream. "How's that feeling?"

"Better now," Oswald says softly. "Thank you."

"Good. Move your hands, I'm gonna dress that thing." Jim's good at dressing wounds, he's done it one too many times. The good news is that the wound, while nothing fun, doesn't look too bad. He lays antibiotic cream and gauze over the wound, tapes it in place. "There."

"Doesn't fix my wounded pride," Oswald sniffs. "You took my ego out behind the woodshed and _shot_ it, Jim."

"You came here expecting me to respect your ego?" Jim steps back, looks him over. His shirt is torn and the blood makes it impossible to see any other damage. "More scrapes to patch up?"

Oswald laughs faintly, mirthlessly, and nods. "Yeah. Nothing serious. Do you mind if I make use of your shower first?"

"Be my guest."

Oswald shifts and hops off of the countertop before Jim can stop him. It's a mistake. Oswald gives a sharp, pained cry and his knees buckle beneath him. Jim had been expecting that, though--he catches Oswald before he hits the ground. Oswald's feet scrabble along the floor and his fingers grip the front of Jim's shirt tightly for a second before he gets his balance and footing. "Be careful," Jim says, needlessly. Oswald is still pressed against Jim, for balance and maybe for comfort, Jim's honestly not sure. There's blood on Jim's shirt now, and he can't bring himself to care. (He doesn't _want_ to let Oswald go. Wants to hold him tight. Shield him with his own body. God, he's in too deep.)

"Are you okay to stand?"

"Yes," Oswald says swiftly, "it was--the impact, I think, when I jumped off the counter--overestimated myself, I guess."

"Okay. Start the shower running. Don't get in. I'll be right back." Jim leaves for a few moments, returns with a roll of plastic wrap. "Let's tape this over your bandage so it doesn't get too wet, all right?" Oswald's sitting again, this time on the edge of the bathtub. He looks shaky and pale. He's always pale, though, so Jim's not sure. "You okay?"

"I've been stabbed," Oswald says, "I'm peachy." Somehow it doesn't even sound sarcastic or rude; Oswald just sounds fucking exhausted. Steam from the shower is starting to make little clouds near the ceiling; Oswald stands. "A little privacy? Unless you'd like to join me," he says with a flirtatious, melodramatic waggle of his eyebrows, and Jim rolls his eyes and quits the bathroom.

Jim knows damn well that he should turn Oswald out on his ass but he's bruised all to hell and he's got a literal stab wound; even if three inches deep at max, that's pretty bad--and god knows where the guys who did it to him are. Jim closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Yet more reasons why he shouldn't be doing this. Hasn't the little bird got somewhere else to stay? Family? Friends?

(It occurs to him that maybe Oswald _doesn't_ have anywhere else to stay, and he feels something like physical pain in the back of his skull at the idea.)

Whatever. It's not like Oswald could fake a stab wound and beat himself up, and Jim knows damn well that he wouldn't have buckled his knees on purpose. He looks fucking weak, and that is not what he aims for. Not around Jim. Not now. This can't be some kind of play.

What could he stand to gain?

He'll ask questions later. For now he sets out an old t-shirt and pajama pants for Oswald and then heads into the kitchen. Nothing like losing blood to make a person hungry; Jim starts on food.

 

-

 

Oswald's out of the shower in twenty-five long minutes. He drags himself into Jim's line of sight, the shirt and pants hanging off his thin form. His bruises and cuts are only more clear now without grime and blood to camouflage them; a nasty slice near his lip, a bruise darkening around his eye. He's limping worse than usual and his fingers are still reflexively covering that stab wound.

"There's a sandwich on the table with your name on it," Jim says, and Oswald flickers a smile, gingerly setting himself down in one of the chairs around the table. Jim sits down in the seat next to him.

Oswald digs in, eating delicately but quickly. "You take such good care of me," he sighs.

"Is that why you're here?"

Oswald looks up at him sharply, finishes his bite and takes a deep drink from the glass of water sitting next to his plate. "Do I need an excuse to visit a friend?" he says lightly.

"Cut the shit," Jim replies, and Oswald heaves a sigh.

"I came here because it was safe, okay? I needed somewhere because a deal went south and I got royally, incandescently shafted, all right? I came here to patch myself up and regroup."

"Haven't you got anywhere else to stay?"

Something a lot like pain or maybe shame passes across Oswald's features. "I'm not the most popular of men, Jim," he says, a joyless smile on his lips. "So no. I haven't got anyone else."

Jim sighs deeply, rubs a hand over his face. "Cronies? Henchmen? Underlings?" he asks, "plenty of people out there to--"

"There's not a James Gordon other than you," Oswald says sharply, "I just needed--I just--"

He's shaking again. He's shaking and Jim hates it. He doesn't like seeing anyone like this, and seeing Oswald--cocky, confident, constantly one-step-ahead Oswald--like this is infinitely distressing. "Stop. It's okay. Finish your sandwich."

Oswald swallows heavily and nods before doing as instructed and returning to his food. He finishes up and stands, moves to bring his dishes to the sink. "I got it," Jim says, takes Oswald's dishes for him, then returns to his side and leads him to the sofa. "Please sit," he says, and goes to retrieve band-aids and more antibiotic cream from the bathroom.

Oswald is perched on the couch when he comes back, silent as the grave. Jim sits across from him, on the coffee table. "Stay still," he instructs, and reaches out to skim ointment over one of the cuts near Oswald's eye.

"You do deserve an explanation." Oswald sighs, closes his eyes and lets Jim work. "You've seen me at my worst, Jim," he murmurs, leaning against Jim's hand. "Begging for my life on that pier, crying for mercy. I was frightened. I promised to be your slave for life. I'd have said anything if it meant I'd survive but I knew--" He paused, seemed to search for words. "I knew it was a lost cause, that my luck had run out, and I was... scared." A huff of breath that might have been a laugh in a previous life. "At your mercy and as weak and pathetic as a newborn kitten."

Jim moves on to a scrape on the underside of Oswald's chin. "You're the only person who's really seen me like that," he says quietly, "and not hurt me. You're the safest place I can be, Jim." Oswald's relaxing, his hair is drying into soft fluffy tufts and he's just letting Jim patch up his remaining wounds and he looks the most peaceful Jim's ever seen him. He looks not like a penguin, but like some sort of delicate avian creature, hollow-boned and breakable and so, so beautiful. "I needed to feel safe. That's why I'm here."

"So because I was soft on you once, you betted I'd be soft on you again."

"I did," Oswald hums. "And I--no, never mind."

"You what?"

Oswald hesitates. "I needed the comfort."

"You were expecting _me_ to comfort you?"

At that, Oswald's eyes open and fix on Jim's. "Being near you is comfort enough," he says, voice quiet and raw and open, and Jim realizes that Oswald could have been killed tonight. He could have fucking bled out in some alleyway, alone in the gutter, and Jim wouldn't have been able to do anything about it. He could have died. But he didn't. He didn't and he was right here and he was beautiful and alive and he came here when he was hurt, and suddenly something inside of Jim breaks. He feels a rush of affection for Oswald, it hits him like a fucking hurricane.

He's a _criminal_ and there's plenty of people who want him _dead_ and Oswald could be _gone_ tomorrow and Jim pulls probably the stupidest move of his life and follows his intuition, which is a terrible decision, probably. He sets his hands on Oswald's knees, leans closer to him, tilts his head; Oswald's eyes widen and he doesn't pull away, maybe even inches closer, and then Jim kisses him.

There's a shocked noise in the back of Oswald's throat before he positively melts. His hands move up, fingertips brushing Jim's cheeks and jaw so lightly; he kisses back, just as chaste and slow, their lips moving sweetly together.

Oswald's the one to pull back, just enough to breathe. He rests his forehead against Jim's, meets his eyes and gives a bright, if tired, smile. "Wow. That explains a little bit."

Jim huffs a tiny laugh, slides a hand up to the back of Oswald's neck. "Don't get stabbed again," he says. "Gunshot wounds are also off-limits. No serious injuries allowed. You got that?"

"Mhm, but... However am I to have an excuse to visit without a mortal injury?"

Jim brushes Oswald's nose with his own. "You're clever. You'll come up with something."

Oswald positively giggles, quietly, and Jim's smiling and for a bright, glowing moment there's nothing in Jim's head but _happiness_ and _Oswald,_ and he allows himself--just for a minute, just for as long as his mind can sustain it--the impossible fantasy that maybe, _somehow_ , everything will be okay.


End file.
